To be touched
by SunSpell80
Summary: "They'll love you. How could they not?" Not ASG compliant


A/N: I keep coming out with oneshots…this one is not ASG compliant. I love ASG, but I wanted to experiment with a more realistic look at what it might have been like for Finnick to be introduced to the Capitol. And then it grew into this...

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Warnings: Mild language, molestation, sexual assault. Not too graphic

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Disclaimer: I don't own the hunger games

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to be touched

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In District Four, everybody touched each other. It was considered good manners. A clap on the back, a hug, a friendly shoulder shake, even two strangers would shake hands and occasionally touch each other's arms while they were getting to know each other. Finnick Odair, being the nice, friendly District Four boy he was, was extremely comfortable with physical contact. He was raised in a large household, with lots of Aunts and older female cousins who liked to fuss over him, and siblings who clung to him with their grubby little fingers. Everyone was like family in the small town in southern Four where he grew up. For Finnick, it was normal for strangers to give him a pat on the head or back. People could be trusted; there was no reason for him to learn otherwise.

When his name was called to the Reaping Stage and his family battled their way through thousands of people to say their good-byes, warning Finnick about strangers was the last thing on their minds.

* * *

Many of the other Tributes were uncomfortable with the prepping and styling because it required them to be naked in front of strangers. Finnick's family was poor with no money to waste on special swimming gear or replacing salt-soaked undergarments, so he'd spent half his childhood splashing around naked in the water. The nudity didn't bother him and he even pushed down his fear of what was to come in order to make conversation with his prep team (Mags told him that if was going to pull of a victory at only fourteen, he was going to need all the sponsors he could get). Used to surly, uncomfortable Tributes, his prep team was delighted in his charm. They giggled and patted him, even pressing a few soothing kisses onto his skin after they'd yanked the hair out a little too hard and he flinched.

His stylist was even friendlier.

He held Finnick out in front of him, declared that he was in for an easy time of it because Finnick was going to do all his work for him and cupped his cheek affectionately. His hands brushed up against Finnick's skin while he helped the boy into his outfit and he insisted on fastening all the ties three times before they were right. When it was time for them for them to head out to the Chariots, he kissed Finnick on both cheeks before embracing him.

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Because of the treatment from his prep team and stylist, Finnick thought that what he'd heard about the Capitol – about how they were much colder and detached than the people of District Four – was wrong. Maybe they sensed there was something special about him and treated him with affection because they liked him. That affection was key to his survival.

So during his interview with Caesar, Finnick greeted him with a handshake and a clap to the shoulder, touched his arm a couple of times throughout the interview like he would someone in his hometown, and even threw in a hug at the end of it to prove what a likeable person he was.

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Nobody touched him in the Arena.

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Before the Recap, his prep team washed away all the dirt and cuts lovingly, crying and petting him like he was a prized dog they thought had run away forever. Finnick was grateful for their love because he knew even though they weren't allowed to sponsor they'd talked to their wealthy friends for him. So he closed his eyes and willed himself to forget the feeling of a thousand Capitol eyes watching him stab a thirteen-year-old in the gut with his trident.

His stylist was nearly worshipful when Finnick was delivered to him, praising his prep team for a job well down. "I was so worried you'd never be beautiful again!" He cried, resting a hand on Finnick's hip. The rest of the dressing process passed in silence, since Finnick was too tired and nervous to go on camera again and his stylist was busy admiring every inch of the work his prep team had done. When it was time for Finnick to go on, his stylist squeezed him on the thigh encouragingly. "They'll love you," He whispered, looking Finnick up and down, "How could they not?"

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Finnick went home and nearly drowned under a tidal wave of hugs and kisses from his family. It was one of the best memories of his young life.

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For the Tour his prep team and stylist invaded his new home in a flurry of excited activity. They kissed and petted and squeezed and hugged him and once they'd gone past to set up a station in his bedroom, Finnick's brother laughed with bemusement. "They're certainly friendly, aren't they?"

Finnick remembers very clearly shooting his brother a grin and saying, "They love me. Can you really blame them?"

He went upstairs, his prep team swarmed and enveloped him, and his stylist shoed them away to put together the finished product. "It needs a belt," His stylist pulled the satin strip through the pant's belt loops, knotting it at the front. He knotted it very slowly and Finnick almost squirmed a few times in discomfort. "There," His stylist finally pulled away and Finnick jumped when his hand accidentally brushed his crotch. "Perfect."

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In Twelve, Finnick nearly taught a drunk Haymitch how to tie a noose before Mags dragged him away, saying that was a poor idea. His stylist kept touching his arm all through dinner.

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In Eleven, Seeder introduced him to her granddaughter, a pretty girl two years younger than Finnick who blushed at the sight of him. His stylist kept his hand in Finnick's hair for almost a full five minutes while he lectured his hair prep about using too much conditioner.

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In Ten, a horse mistook Mags's tight bun for some sort of food and attempted to take a bight out of it – Finnick just barely managed to stop laughing in order to rescue his aged mentor. His stylist nudged Finnick's thigh under the table at breakfast when he made a joke.

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In Nine, most of the festivities were cancelled due to a terrible thunder storm and Finnick kept picking at his nails, wishing he had something to do with his hands. His stylist wrapped his arm around Finnick and led him toward the train, his hand slipping further down than normal.

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In Eight, Finnick shut himself in his compartment crying after having to look the parents of the thirteen-year-old he killed in the eyes. His stylist came in to comfort him and his hand rubbed circles on Finnick's lower back when they hugged.

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In Seven, Mags saw the way his hands keep shaking and gave him a length of rope to make knots with. His stylist was the one to wake him up in the morning with a hand petting Finnick's hair. Finnick has no idea how long his stylist was there before he woke up.

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In Six, one of the morphling addicts offered him a hit, which Finnick rejects easily. He can't imagine sinking that low. His stylist's hand brushed against his ass for what has to be the millionth time, only this time it was a little too long and confident for Finnick to think it was an accident.

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In Five, Finnick watched the way that the preps and his stylist treat Mags: with a friendly but reserved respect. His stylist pressed a hand on Finnick's shoulder as he stood up from the table and when he finally walked away his fingers glided across the shoulder and brushed against the back of his neck.

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In Three, Beetee and Mags disappeared from the dinner to discuss something private, leaving Finnick to attempt conversation with the odd Wiress. His stylist gave Finnick a massage without asking, because he was been looking tense on the cameras; after his stylist let out a short moan while kneading Finnick's ass, he felt tenser than ever before.

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In Two, the other Victors were clearly hostile toward Finnick for killing both of their Tributes, so Mags stayed all by his side the entire evening. His stylist made an excuse about needing to face the window because he was claustrophobic during breakfast on the train so that he could sit next to Finnick, who purposefully sat away from him; when he leaned forward to make a point, he pushed his hand against Finnick's inner thigh and touched his crotch with his fingers.

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In One, Finnick considered telling Mags about what'd been happening, but he didn't know what to call it and was more than a little embarrassed, so he didn't. His stylist touched him again at dinner while Victors and officials surrounded them, and left his hand there for a full ten minutes.

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In the Capitol, his stylist was able to have him alone for two hours to prepare for the Victory Party. For two hours Finnick stood still while his stylist measured and adjusted the outfit, hands trailing far too long and in places they really shouldn't have been touching. When his stylist wrapped his hand around Finnick's penis, Finnick finally pushed him away. "Don't touch me."

His stylist looked hurt. "I have to touch you, to get you dressed. Do you want me to go? Because then I'll have to take my clothes with me and you'll have to go out there naked."

Finnick knew there are at least a dozen strangers waiting for him to walk out. Once that wouldn't have bothered him. Now he said nothing as his stylist reached down to touch him again.

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"You're a little too touchy-feely with the Capitol people."

Finnick looked up from the net he was working on to see his dad frowning at a replay of his Victory Tour. "What?"

His dad sighed. "Don't take this the wrong way, but it makes you come of kind of…loose. They're not like the people here. It's not just a friendly thing." Finnick could do nothing but stare at his dad. _Why couldn't you have told me that nine months ago? _"You're giving them the wrong idea. You need to be more careful."

It was his fault. Finnick nodded and bent his head, not wanting to tell his dad that it was too late.

* * *

He went to the Capitol for the Sixty-sixth Hunger Games, but it was all for publicity. Obviously he was way too young to mentor. Too young to mentor, but not too young for his stylist to jerk him off and leave him in a dazed, confused heap in his bedroom. It felt weirdly good even though his skin had crawled the whole time at his stylist's closeness.

When he was done, his stylist licked the fingers of one hand and patted Finnick on the cheek of his other hand. "Good boy."

Finnick tried to avoid his stylist as much as possible through the Games, but that was like trying to avoid air. He was a celebrity now, and that meant every tiny crease of his clothes had to be arranged. And they were arranged with hands that pushed and pulled at his skin, followed by lips and teeth that left him feeling sickly hot and cold at the same time.

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When Finnick arrived back from a party to the District Four suite, there was nobody there but his stylist, who cornered Finnick and insisted on taking off his clothes for him so that he didn't ruin them. Minutes later he had one hand shoved down Finnick's pants and the other pushing into his mouth, rubbing his finger alongside the inside of Finnick's lips. He started rubbing up against Finnick's leg and then his fingers moved toward Finnick's ass and pushed inside him as he started to turn Finnick around.

Being fifteen, Finnick had heard enough jokes about sodomy to know what he was trying to do.

A second later, his stylist was crumpled on the floor, clutching a bloody hand that probably had teeth-marks now. Finnick bolted, not knowing where he was heading but needing to be out of there.

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He wound up at the Training Center bar, where Chaff and Haymitch erupted with laughter at the sight of him. "Have a drink with us, kid." Haymitch insisted. "I wanna see the look on Mags's face if we get you drunk."

So he drank with them, silent and closed-off, not touching anything but the barstool and the cold glasses that kept coming. Finally while Chaff was in the middle of some crude joke about barmaids – the female bartender serving them drinks was ignoring him rather well – Finnick blurted out: "My stylist just assaulted me."

This caused Chaff and Haymitch to burst out into laughter again. "What'd he do, run after you with a comb and a bottle of hair dye?"

Normally Finnick would have protested and said he didn't dye his hair, or if he were in a really good mood might have joined them in their jokes. Instead he said, "He molested me," in a voice he didn't recognize.

That shut Chaff and Haymitch up. Chaff leaned forward. "If you're joking, you'd better say so now. Because that's not funny. That's a serious allegation."

"I'm not." Finnick felt stupid. Of course it was serious. He should have gone to Mags back when it first started. "It happened."

Haymitch frowned and glanced around, before asking quickly and quietly, "What did he say to you?"

It was an odd question and not the first one Finnick would have expected. "Nothing."

"He just randomly starting to molest you without saying anything?"

Heat burned his cheeks. "I, um, it's sort of been happening for a while but I didn't know what to do." He wanted to cry, but refused to do so in front of the older, tough Victors. "And I didn't realize what was going on until tonight…" _because I'm an idiot._

"How long?" Chaff and Haymitch were exchanging worried looks and Finnick couldn't recall ever feeling more embarrassed in his life. But the thought of having to be alone with his stylist again was terrifying enough to push him forward.

"I don't know. It happened on the Tour, but maybe when I got out of the Arena too, or even before. I'm not sure."

Oddly, this made Haymitch relax a little. "So he's not supposed to be doing it," he said under his breath and that made Finnick gape at him, because of course he wasn't supposed to be doing it! "Do you want us to report him?"

This time it was Chaff to look at Haymitch like he'd grown an extra head. "Of course we're going to report him," a sentiment Finnick couldn't help but agree with.

"If we don't report him, I'm sure we can work at getting him banned another way," Haymitch said darkly. "We report him, he's looking at losing his tongue or execution."

"You think?"

"For touching Capitol property? He'll be _lucky _to just lose his tongue."

Finnick's head was spinning. Losing tongues? Execution? Capitol property? None of it made any sense and he just wanted to go to sleep. "Can I decide tomorrow? And, and maybe…" He trailed off, not wanting to admit that he didn't feel comfortable going back to the District Four suite.

Haymitch sighed loudly and ran a hand through his greasy hair. "There's only one of me, so I've got an extra room in the suite. Come on."

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The next morning, Finnick asked Haymitch if he really thought his stylist would be executed if they reported him. Haymitch said it didn't matter. Somebody must have overheard their conversation and contacted the authorities. Peacekeepers invaded the District Four suite while Finnick was sleeping and dragged his stylist away. Whatever his fate was, it was kept quiet.

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A year later, Finnick was sat down by President Snow himself and learned what Haymitch meant by "Capitol property."

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Whenever he was home, he no longer touched anybody.

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A/N: Poor Finnick.

I purposefully didn't give the stylist's name, because it's supposed to be a retrospective piece where Finnick is looking back and he purposefully forgot the stylist's name.

I wanted to blur the lines a little bit because I think in reality Finnick's immersion into the sexual world of the Capitol would be more confusion than I made it out to be in the first chapter of ASG (If I could do one thing over…). That's what makes it the most difficult for him, and one of the reasons it's hard for people to tell someone when they're being molested. It's usually not obvious at first.

I used the word "sodomy" because I think it's the kind of word the people in Panem would use. I do _not _use it in normal conversation or for academic purposes. I know the connotations there.


End file.
